


when you gotta send captain america on a pad run

by godlet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Peter, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gender Identity, Menstruation, Nonbinary Character, Precious Peter Parker, Puberty, obligatory Deadpool cameo, peter has a conversation with a tampon on the floor, sensory issues, steve is Honorary Dad Of The Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godlet/pseuds/godlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Peter? This number is for emergencies only, you know."</p><p>"Yes, Captain, I know, and I'm sor - "</p><p>"It's Steve, please."</p><p>"Sir, listen." Peter licks his lips nervously. "You gotta."</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you gotta send captain america on a pad run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Biromantic_Nerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biromantic_Nerd/gifts).



 

Peter is currently sitting on the toilet in the upstairs bathroom and contemplating what his fictional obituary might look like. It's not gallows humor – goodness, no, Aunt May would have him for breakfast and then sit him down for that talk he keeps avoiding by leaping out of windows – but it is slightly depressive and full of hopelessness that only comes from being in an anxiety-filled situation with no perceived positive outcome.

 

Case in point: Aunt May hasn't had a menstrual cycle for a few years now, so it's sort of been up to Peter to keep up with everything body related in that neck of the woods.

 

However, as he got up this morning, tugged at his roots a little with stress, changed his stained sheets and pants, and then sat down on the toilet, ready to get this whole thing over with – he opened the cabinet to nothing.

 

No pads.

 

Nada.

 

Aunt May was already at work, Peter needed to be at school very, very soon, and he couldn’t find any pads.

 

Which is why he is grappling with something behind his head, still sitting on the toilet, probably running out of ideas but going just strong enough not to give up and cry or something equally embarrassing.

 

He finally gets the box open, hand closing around a thin and crinkly object. With a tiny triumphant noise, Peter pulls the tube in front of his face.

 

Then blanches.

 

It’s a tampon.

 

Peter’s never used a tampon before. Probably because he’s heard that they hurt, and he just doesn’t think they he’d be able to go about his day normally with something so obtrusive and distracting going on with his body. Any more than usual, of course.

 

In fact, as he slowly lowers the offensive item to the ground, he’s soon to remember that he doesn’t know how to put one in, either. They’re mostly just left-overs from when Aunt May wasn’t on menopause.

 

“Well,” he tells the flowery package on the floor morosely, “that was my last plan.”

 

Except the world is quick to remind him that, no, that was, in fact, _not_ his last plan. This comes in the form of his previously forgotten cellphone pinging quietly from the counter next to his head. He has reminders set all across the weekday like that – right now it’s telling him that this is the time he would normally be hopping all around the house making a ruckus about being late for school.

 

Peter makes a high-pitched noise of distress as he silences the reminder on his phone. Instead, he haplessly begins scrolling through his contacts, wondering if maybe he could… call for help?

 

He immediately rules out Aunt May – she’s probably already at work and can’t leave. He also rules out Gwen, who must be wondering where he could possibly be right now if not also at school.

 

He gets sort of distracted with just how many phone numbers he has saved in his contacts. Since when did he have Flash Thompson’s number? He also scrolls past a contact that is just a line of spider emojis. His memory serves as no honest explanation, so he decides to investigate it later.

 

Then he hits The Avengers Folder. Yes – he has a folder for all of their contacts. How can he not? He’s got _The Avengers’ phone numbers_ for Pete’s sake! Lucky, like one in a million.

 

With nothing better to do than sit there and be squicked out by his own bodily functions, Peter opens that folder and stares – dare he say lovingly – at the collection of contacts.

 

Peter barely even glances at Clint’s number. The man only ever answered texts, most likely due to his deafness, and even then it was doubtful that he would be awake at this hour. It often took more than just coffee to get him coherent in the early afternoons.

 

The young hero also scrolls past Tony Stark’s number with only an instinctual twitch of the leg. Who in their right mind would call up Tony- _I-Am-Iron-Man_ -Stark for a pad run at 8 a.m? Certainly not flimsy little Peter Parker, that’s who.

 

“Pepper could be up right now,” Peter speaks absentmindedly at the tampon still on the floor. The tampon does not speak back.

 

Peter chews on the insides of his mouth. Anyone’s first guess as to who he should call would be Natasha, right? Well, he doesn’t want to just assume that the woman even needs menstrual gear; that would be rude. It also might put him on her bad side, which is something that Peter is pretty sure exists even though he has no proof of how to get on or off of it.

 

And then he realizes that he just assumed something about Natasha _again_ and mimes smacking the back of his head against the wall a few times to try and curb his embarrassment.

 

Right - on with the list.

 

Dr. Banner. Something giddy tingles in Peter’s stomach, and he squashes it as if the man himself could feel the blatant hero worship all the way from Queens. Peter would love nothing more than to casually conference with Dr. Banner, but he has to restrain himself. With his luck, the scientist would be in the middle of something important, and not even pick up.

 

Peter scrubs his mouth against his shoulder. How awful would it be to get a call from Dr. Banner, hours later, the man asking him what was wrong and Peter having to say something like ‘I panicked’ and then ‘nothing.’

 

Totally not worth it.

 

The only other contacts in the folder are Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers. Thor keeps breaking his phones by simply existing as an otherworldly god, apparently, so Mr. Stark has given up (for now) on having technological contact with the Asgardian.

 

Peter runs his finger over the touch screen momentarily. Sam Wilson was a pretty down-to-earth guy, going by Peter’s past interactions with the newer member. He seemed to like helping people with small, nearly inconsequential things, but also big things, too.

 

But then he remembers with a frown. Sam was an adult who did _big_ _things_ – like host open counseling events for veterans.

 

Which only leaves Captain America.

 

Yes – Peter put it in as ‘Captain America.’ Who wouldn’t?

 

Some part of Peter’s brain goes ‘bingo.’ As Spiderman – because that was the only time allowed in Stark Tower, really – the web-slinger’s heard Captain America complain – does Captain America complain? Maybe he doesn’t? Honestly, Peter feels like that Captain America could complain all day and night and he’d still be reacting perfectly rationally according to his situation – about feeling useless waiting around. He was much too famous by now to just go out and apply for jobs. When people see Captain America, they expect either a press conference or aliens.

 

So – Captain America could go out in disguise, sure, but he risks being swarmed by adoring fans if found out, or accidentally alerting people to an unreal threat with his magnificent presence.

 

“So?” Peter quietly asks the tampon he is currently squishing between his toes. It makes pleasant crunching noises and is a great distraction. “Yay or nay?”

 

The tampon offers no reassurances.

 

“Nay the yay it is, then,” Peter responds with the slightest of tremors in his voice as he jitterishly presses the CALL button and puts the phone to his ear. With every ring, his heart and stomach sort of bump against each other in a move seemingly impossible by physical or biological means.

 

“Rogers.”

 

Peter belatedly realizes that one cannot simply go ‘hey’ to Captain America.

 

“Captain.”

 

“Peter?” There’s a soft shuffling noise. “What’s going on?”

 

“Oh, um… Nothing’s – nothing’s going on, per se, I just,” Don’t think I’ve ever had such a mind-blowingly bad idea in my entire life.

 

Besides sneaking into Oscorp and getting bitten by a bioengineered spider, but that is _very_ debatable.

 

"Peter? This number is for emergencies only, you know."

 

 "Yes, Captain, I know, and I'm sor - "

 

"It's Steve, please."

 

"Sir, listen." Peter licks his lips nervously as his stomach does this weird churning thing that may or may not have to do with the current conversation, may actually have something to do with his uterus. "You gotta."

 

“I gotta?” There’s a bit of incredulity in Steve’s voice. Peter is surprised that he doesn’t miss it with his lackluster listening comprehension skills.

 

“That was,” Peter presses a hand to his forehead just to feel the pressure of it, “120% _not_ what I meant to say, sorry.”

 

“120%?” There’s a little bit more hilarity in Steve’s voice now. “I see.”

 

“Listen, I’m sorry, won’t happen again, I’ll just hang up now – “

 

“No, no, it’s alright,” Steve reassures. He sounds like a heaven sent angel. “It’s obvious that you’re in some kind of distress. I’m sorry for making you feel like what may be happening isn’t an emergency to you.”

 

There’s a couple of seconds where Peter just sort of presses his free hand to his mouth and rubs it back and forth over his lips; a repetitive and comforting movement.

 

“Now,” Steve says, all gentle and, well, _gentleman_ -like, “what was it that you needed, son?”

 

“Are – are you sure? You’re not busy? Because I can, I can call back later – “ Peter absolutely, under no circumstances, can call back later, he needs to get this done now, he has no idea why he said that.

 

“Oh, no, I’m not busy at all.” If Peter was any better at this, then he would probably be able to pick out the wistful tone.

 

“I – “ Didn’t plan this far. _“Ohmigosh,_ um…” I’m super embarrassed and really _, really_ didn’t plan this far.

 

Instincts bad. Peter doesn’t know why he ever listens to his instincts outside of spidey-sensing.

 

“It’s okay, Peter. What do you need?”

 

“Not tampons,” Peter blurts out, too busy focusing on, well, _focusing_ to let his mind formulate verbal responses. Now he just sounds like a Neanderthal.

 

“I – alright,” Steve seems to be fairly amicable, if a bit hesitant. “Not tampons.”

 

“I’m… sorry,” Peter gets out while flapping one hand near violently against his thigh. It does nothing to ease the situation. “I’m – I need. Pads. Yes, those. Pads. Please.”

 

“Okay, I can do that,” Captain America agrees a bit too readily. “I’ll try to be quick.”

 

“I – thank you. Thanks.” Stilted speech, still.

 

Steve makes a warm sound that might be a light chuckle. “I’ll call you if I need clarification. See you soon.”

 

Peter jumps ever so slightly with the hard, fuzzy _thunk_ of the line disconnecting. He blinks rapidly a couple times, barely even surprised when a few tears leak from his eyes. Probably from stress… or not blinking for the entire conversation.

 

He sets the phone back onto the counter next to the toilet, demoting his previously high-strung level of concentration to the itching wait of sitting on the toilet.

 

“I spy, with my little eye… Something… yellow.”

 

The pastel yellow tampon on the floor does nothing.

 

“Wow!” Peter pretends to praise it, splaying his toes on the floor around it with small flecks of hilarity in his chest at his own joke. “You got it on the first try!”

 

“Peter?”

 

Peter startles so badly that one foot kicks the poor, hapless tampon upwards like a goal-winning soccer ball. He watches, disbelieving, as the sanitary tube launches up, up, _up,_ until it hits the popcorn-textured ceiling with a soft, crinkly _thwump._

 

His eyes widen further as he realizes that the rough, miniscule spikes of the ceiling have caught on the thin, slick plastic of the tampon’s packaging.

 

Peter just kicked a tampon and stuck it to the ceiling.

 

Without using his webs, even.

 

Aunt May continues to move about the house in an audibly obvious way that leaves the small hairs in his ear tickling. Peter doesn’t know when she came in the door, but it must have been during his awkward conversation with Captain – sorry; _Steve –_ or else he would have heard her.

 

“Are… are you still home?” Aunt May calls confusedly, walking up the stairs to the second floor. “Peter?”

 

His phone chimes with a reminder, echoing loudly in the bathroom. The traitor.

 

 _“Nooo…”_ Peter whispers softly with dismay as Aunt May makes her way towards the closed bathroom door.

 

Pre-emptively, and with a whole heaping of haywire instincts, Peter webs the doorknob. Soon after, there comes a faint jiggling sound from what could only be sticky white fibers holding the lockless knob from moving not but a few scant millimeters.

 

“Peter, are you holding the door closed? What’s wrong? Are - are you alright in there?” Aunt May worries from the other side of the door, eventually ending her futile attempt to open it.

 

“I’m – I’m fine!” Peter squeaks out, wide eyes flicking between the tampon embedded in the ceiling and the sticky door. He is slightly regretting the routine that he has where he puts on his web-slingers before anything else in the mornings. “I’m, I just, I - I’m busy right now, Aunt May.”

 

“Oh, sweetie,” Aunt May admonishes. “If you were sick all you had to do was tell me. There’s no shame in that.”

 

“I’m not – I’m not sick,” Peter responds, 100% shame. “I’m – we’re out, of uhm, pads.” His speech is so stilted that he clears his throat and tries again, a bit louder and clearer. “We are out of pads.”

 

“Oh!” And with that, she tries the doorknob again. Peter swallows a bit nervously. “Well, I – Peter, may I _please_ come in now?”

 

“Um…” The web-slinger shifts on the toilet. He can’t exactly get up to try and pry the synthetic material off of the doorknob, which he had stupidly slung in the first place with no plan and no foresight as to why that might be a _bad idea._

 

So he does the next best thing – or is it? Peter doubts his self-perception at the moment – slinging a line of webbing at the doorknob, capturing the older, slightly hardened web with the newer, tacky-sticky web and deftly yanking it off.

 

The old web lands in the toilet-side garbage can.

 

Peter puffs a bit of air out of his unconsciously puckered lips.

 

“Come in!” He calls, pulling his soft old shirt down until it covers most of his thighs. He doesn’t even have pants to pull up since he had to throw those into the wash immediately if he was to salvage them from the stains.

 

Aunt May, bless her prudence, only opens the door partially and sticks her head in.

 

“H-hey, Aunt May, uhm,” he awkwardly waves a hand around before forcefully placing it on the counter. “What are you, uh… what are you doing home?”

 

“Well, I forgot my inhaler and had to come back,” Aunt May says a bit bashfully. “But it looks like I’m going to be even more late, now. I’ll just go to the store and get you some pads – “

 

“Ah! Ah nope! It’s okay!” Peter’s hand is quick to start flailing in the air again as his face does that thing where his eyebrows try to fly off into the sun and he tilts his head back to make his eyes look wider, more urgent. “I – I already uh, called somebody. It’s okay.”

 

Aunt May shifts on her feet. “Are – are you sure, Peter? Who did you call?”

 

Uh-oh. “Just…” He has to swallow, “just another intern from work who, uh, who got the day off.” Technically, since they all ‘worked’ in Stark Tower, Steve Rogers could be called an ‘intern’ in some sort of convoluted logical way, right?

 

“Oh, well,” Aunt May goes to leave with a stern look mixed precariously with love and concern. “You make sure you thank that nice person, young man, if they’re using their day off for your sake.”

 

“I – I will, Aunt May,” Peter agrees hurriedly. Having someone peeking in the bathroom while you’re sitting on the toilet is no hay-ride for the nerves.

 

“Okay, then, I’ll see you after work, Pet – “

 

“W – wait, Aunt May!” Peter calls before she fully leaves. “Um, could you, um, please get me some pants from my room, please?” Double stuff that pleading tone for maximum affect.

 

“Yes, I can do that,” Aunt May responds before leaving the small gap in the door, walking down the hall and audibly into Peter’s room. The web-slinger himself is… 90% sure that he cleaned up any incriminating Spiderman evidence.

 

The tampon makes ‘incriminating evidence’ vibes from its position on the ceiling. Peter sends a scathing look up at it.

 

He has to whip his head down and turn his eyes as far away from the impromptu modern art, however, as his aunt sticks both her head and her hand full of underpants inside the bathroom.

 

“Thanks, Aunt May,” Peter tells her with some relief. Now at least he won’t have to do something horribly embarrassing like waddle past Captain America with a wad of toilet paper between his legs so that he can go get a pair of pants to actually stick the pad’s adhesive to.

 

Aunt May smiles at him, raising some knowing eyebrows as she finally closes the door and begins her trek back to work.

 

“I love you, Aunt May!” Peter calls with a little smile.

 

“Mhm, I love you too!” Aunt May’s exasperated voice flits up the stairs.

 

Moments later, he hears the front door open and close.

 

Mere seconds after that, his phone gives a shrill ring.

 

Peter makes a distressed noise as his hackles all immediately rise in some sort of defense. Were he not on the toilet, he’d be in the classic spidey-crouch, ready to web himself to the nearest surface and get a move on.

 

Now, however, he just looks like he’s expecting the porcelain throne beneath him to become a surprise rocket at any second.

 

Taking a deep breath, Pete picks up the phone. Lo and behold, Captain America is calling.

 

“Yes, Cap – Er, Steve?”

 

“The feminine hygiene product aisle sure has grown since my time, hasn’t it?”

 

“I…” Then Peter blinks. Some sort of info dump potential surfaces from the recesses of his mind. He doesn’t let it stick, only managing to get out an “The first adhesive sanitary napkin wasn’t invented until 1969.”

 

“Huh,” is all Steve says to that, whether it answers his rhetorical question or not. “I’m guessing that uh… the menstrual cup went out of style?”

 

“Most people just order them online these days,” Peter offers up. He’s more than slightly surprised at his sudden mild relaxation at holding a proper conversation. He pins this newfound verbal ability on either Aunt May’s appearance or the presence of fact-giving. Peter is good at fact-giving. “We also have absorbent underpants, but I’m not sure if I trust that technology enough to give it a go yet.”

 

Steve makes an interested noise. Peter can hear the sounds of a store in the speaker’s background. “Back when I used to travel around with the girls,” goes story-telling Steve. Peter _adores_ story-telling Steve. “There were a lot more belts and clips involved. And since I was normally the only one with pockets in my uh, my _uniform,_ I would always be the one to carry all of their uh… their supplies.”

 

Peter laughs lightly at the image. “They must’ve thought you were a really good friend, then.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Peter can imagine Steve doing that good-natured shrug with the secretly teasing smirk on his lips. “I was everyone’s pretend date at least twice back then, so I guess I must’ve been.”

 

Peter has to move the phone away from his body as his hand slaps against his thigh a few times, incomprehensible noises erupting from his throat in little squeaks and giggles.

 

“Well, Pete, I’m here,” Steve unknowingly interrupts with. “What size and which kind do you need?”

 

“Large chocolate milkshake, please,” Peter responds cheekily, still a little flushed from the hilarity seconds before. “Um – medium, no wings. Doesn’t really matter which brand.”

 

“Medium, no wings,” Steve hums before making a barely audible triumphant noise. _“Aaand…_ A large chocolate shake. Gotcha’.”

 

Peter can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Thanks. Thank you. A bunch.”

 

“It’s no problem,” Steve says. “Really, honestly – it’s no problem, so don’t feel guilty, okay Pete?”

 

“Yea,” Peter smiles, unrestrained. “Okay.”

 

“I’ll see you soon.”

 

“Yup, bye.”

 

And with that, Peter drops the line and puts his phone back onto the counter. Giddy feelings rise in his throat as something in his mind goes ‘See? That wasn’t so bad, now was it?’ His cheeks kind of ache from smiling for so long during the conversation, so he massages them slowly.

 

“I’m guessing that you’re just going to uh…” Peter says to the tampon still stuck to the ceiling, “sit up there and embarrass me some more, huh?”

 

The tampon continues to be a non-sentient object.

 

“Figures,” Peter grumbles out, starting to chew on the insides of his mouth with boredom. He really wishes that he brought his rubber toy with him so that he could have something to fiddle with.

 

Instead, he resigns himself to some more uncomfortable waiting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Guh...”_ Peter blinks rapidly, his eyeballs dry and stinging, as he makes a mock-angry face up at the captured tampon. “You win the staring contest _again!_ You’ve _gotta_ teach me how you do that – “

 

His little competition with the unconventional above-head art is interrupted by three quick knocks on what sounds to be the front door downstairs.

 

 _“Shnookerdookies!”_ Peter exclaims as he fumbles with his cell, hurriedly opening a text to Captain America.

 

_Sent at 9:03 a.m._

_PETE: the door is unlocked, can’t move right now, sorry please come in!!!_

_…_

_…_

_…_

 

Peter perks his ears for any sound of Steve heeding his advice and coming in the door. Instead, his phone vibrates first, causing him to look down in confusion.

 

_CAP: : ) Okay. Thank you._

 

Peter places a hand on his chest. “Be still my beating heart,” he tells his ribcage with faint bits of incredulity.

 

Did Captain America just send him a smiley?

 

Finally, the door downstairs opens audibly. Steve shouts out a “Peter? I’m coming in!” quite politely before shutting the door.

 

Peter makes a distressed sound in his throat. He feels really weird just yelling at Captain America – who is _in his house –_ like they were two casual friends. In fact, it hits a bit too close to the ‘family member’ category, causing his heart to throb faintly.

 

“C…uh– I’m upstairs!” Peter calls, his voice wavering slightly. All the good, calm feelings from the earlier phone conversation have melted. “I’m in the only closed room!”

 

A small pause. “Alright, I’m coming up!” The stairs creak under Steve’s weight, no more than usual under anyone else’s in the house, but it makes Peter long for a certain heavy-set old man who used to complain about his knees going up and down the stairs…

 

Light knocks sound on the bathroom door.

 

Peter flaps his hands around next to his head in indecision. “I – um…” How to do this? “Just… Open the door and slide it in, I guess?”

 

“Okay, I’m opening the door now.”

 

Then slowly, almost comically, the door creaks open slightly, a dark blue package full of pastel green pallets slides its way in about halfway between the floor and the ceiling, held up by an unseen hand.

 

Peter isn’t about to stretch himself across the bathroom to grab it, so he does the next best thing and webs the package, yanking it towards himself so quickly that it accidentally collides with his face.

 

_“Oof.”_

 

“Peter?”

 

“I’m fine!” Peter calls a bit too loudly as he catches the falling projectile with his feet. “Thank you!”

 

“No problem.” Steve answers before shutting the door. Peter can hear from the way his feet hit the floor that he is trying quite obviously to tell Peter that he is moving away from the door and down the stairs.

 

Peter pointedly looks up at the tampon just above the door. “Oh, he’s such a gentleman,” he tells it in a falsetto voice, dexterous feet already working with his sticky-spidey-powers to undo the plastic packaging.

 

Once he’s done looping the underpants around his ankles, securing the pad’s adhesive to the inside, then shoving the remainder of the pads up under the sink, he stands and pulls his sleep shirt down and over his shorts. He’s a bit too, well, _long_ to wear a shirt as a makeshift dress, but it does well enough to hide the fact that he’s wearing boxers instead of actual pants.

 

He takes a look at the clock on his phone – something he’s been avoiding for the entire time sequestering himself in the bathroom – and lets out a “Sweet _niblets!”_ as he yanks the bathroom door open and bounds to his room to throw on some clothes.

 

Peter was, apparently, too panicky to hear Steve’s concerned “Peter?” and subsequent trip up the stairs, as he gives himself a fright when he flies out of his room, breakneck speed, and nearly runs into the barrel-chested Avenger.

 

 _“Oh, kitty whiskers!”_ Peter accidentally shouts up at Steve, who looks monumentally confused. “Sorry, Cap, sir, buddy ole pal, but I’m later than my failed moral obligation of going to sleep before 3 a.m.!”

 

With that, he hurries into the bathroom and sticks a toothbrush in his mouth, trying not to set off his senses by brushing his gums too hard.

 

Steve stands in the doorway, arms crossed but merely observing as he leans against the door jamb watching Peter do a little dance in place. “I can give you a ride if you want.”

 

Peter makes happy noises in his throat in lieu of speaking, not wanting to spray Captain America with toothpaste debris.

 

“Peter?” Steve speaks up eventually.

 

The aforementioned teen spits out his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. “Yessir?”

 

“…Is that a tampon stuck to your ceiling?”

 

Peter slowly, slowly turns, looks up, then looks back down, blinking only once.

 

“It’s tradition,” he says, stupidly. “Decoration.”

 

“…I see,” is all Steve says in response. His mien appears to be carefully blank, but that might just be Peter’s faceblindness acting up.

 

“It’s… neither of those,” Peter groans out, hunching his shoulders and hiding his face in his hoodie sleeves with pure, 100% _bona fide_ mortification. “I’m sorry, I don’t – I don’t know why I said that.”

 

Steve lets out a big sigh, a smile coming to his face as he apparently waves every bit of Peter’s weirdness off into the air like a forgettable bug and nothing more. “It’s fine.”

 

“I don’t know how to tell you why it’s there, either,” Peter continues to ramble, releasing his face in favor of flapping his hands vaguely in the air. His eyebrows are trying to crawl into his hairline again. “It’s just – it’ll just have to be one of life’s great mysteries.”

 

Steve does that endearing little head-tilt and half-smile that makes him look like an all-knowing uncle in on a personal joke or something. “Are you ready, then?”

 

“I’m,” such a spazz, “so ready, very ready to go, always ready to go. Let’s go. Thank you.”

 

“Pack extra pads?” Steve half-asks, half-reminds as Peter hoists up his backpack and follows the Avenger down the stairs.

 

“Yup,” Peter answers automatically. Then he has to physically shake his head and shoulders to try and shuck off those weird familial feelings again. “Got my battle armor all ready to go.” Then he adds, cheekily, “Oh, and my suit and web-slingers; those are slightly important, too.”

 

Steve chuckles good-naturedly at the joke. Peter scrubs a hand through his hair – slightly oily, which is awful because he’s going to be aware of that feeling all day now – and hopes that he isn’t blushing or dancing or glowing with obvious hero worship or anything.

 

“Oh,” Steve gasps out, taking a few quick strides to the kitchen counter. “I almost forgot; here.”

 

Peter’s eyes bug out of his head as he is handed one of the biggest chocolate milkshakes he’s possibly ever seen in New York. He can barely wrap his hands around it, maybe because _Captain America_ is handing it to him.

 

“I – I was joking, _ohmigosh,”_ Peter stutters out. He has to restrain himself from immediately latching onto the straw and sucking like a lamprey. His aunt raised him with better manners than that. “I was joking, right? You – you could tell? I mean, thanks, thank you, this is _giant –_ I mean _great.”_

 

Steve smiles again, “Yes, Peter – I could tell that you were joking. I could also tell that this time of the month is a bit overwhelming for you,” he pats Peter on the shoulder, “so I decided that a little pick-me-up wouldn’t hurt. You’re not lactose intolerant, are you?”

 

But Peter’s already got his lips on the straw. “Even if I was, how could I _not?”_ He says before proceeding to get a mind-blowingly awesome mouthful of liquid ice-cream.

 

Like heaven.

 

Even if he has problems with how milk gives him weirdly oily mouthfeels, the numbing iciness of the drink chases that all away and allows him to enjoy the shake to its full potential.

 

“Mm,” Peter moans, “I changed my mind. You’re my favorite.” Before Steve can say anything, most likely along the lines of ‘you have favorites?’, he babbles on, “Has Bruce Banner ever brought me pads and a ten-ton milkshake straight to my house in my most dire time of need? No.”

 

Steve laughs out loud and nabs a slightly wandering Peter’s shoulder, steering him towards a black car parked on the street, most likely either issued by SHIELD or brazenly borrowed from Tony Stark. “Is that all it takes to sway your allegiance? A small favor and a lot of chocolate?”

 

“I will not be satisfied until The Hulk himself, in all his big green glory, hauls an entire pushcart full of hotdogs to my house,” Peter deadpans right before he ducks into the car, door graciously opened by Steve.

 

He has a very satisfied feeling in his stomach when the last thing he hears before the door is gently closed next to his head is Steve’s boisterous, if mildly surprised, laughter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Thanks, Cap,” Peter forgoes mock-saluting the literal war veteran as he bends over slightly to poke his head into the driver’s side of the car parked on the tail-end of the school property. “I owe you one.”

 

“Nah,” Steve responds with, sounding like an easy-going fellow as he squints up at Peter despite being parked next to a leafy tree with shade. Peter feels empathy for the similarly enhanced super-soldier who also has light-sensitivity. “Just take care of yourself, alright? And keep on your toes.”

 

Peter squeezes his eyes together as hard as they will go, giving Captain America a toothy smile. He probably looks like a squirrel about to sneeze.

 

“Kid,” Steve gets out between chuckles. “You are a riot.” Then he waves once, rolling up the windows and driving safely out of the school zone like the best PTA mom to ever exist.

 

“Hey,” calls some kid from somewhere in the grass. Peter’s been listening to them drag their school greenhouse issued rake across the sidewalk for the past two minutes, so he isn’t surprised at their nosy presence. “Who was that?”

 

Peter turns, milkshake in hand and lightly interested expression open and ready to be misinterpreted by this random student.

 

The kid’s question is, for all intents and purposes, innocent in nature, but Peter can tell from the way their eyes are blown wide as they track the place where the heavily tinted black car was just at that they are already connecting some dots in their mind.

 

“Who, that?” Peter says, acting obtuse. The other kid nods hastily, head flicking between following the black car and looking at Peter. “Oh, that was just my grandfather.”

 

“Oh,” the kid says a bit morosely. Their arm jerks a little and they almost drop their rake when they finally look at Peter completely. “Hey, you’re not allowed to have outside food in the school. Throw that away.”

 

“I’m not allowed to take this inside?” Peter, once again, asks obtusely. “Alright.”

 

The kid looks immensely confused when he walks up to them and foists it off into their free hand, which is covered in fertilizer and dirt that makes Peter’s super-senses gag. “Here.”

 

“What?” They respond, a bit floored. “What are you – “

 

“You’re outside, aren’t you?” Peter throws his hands out as he briskly walks away, albeit backwards. “Take it – it’s chocolate. Besides; I’m lactose intolerant.”

 

He barely restrains himself from skipping into the school building when he twirls around, licking his chops like a satisfied house cat while his stomach sits full and chilled with half of a ginormous milkshake.

 

He’s never going to make fun of Gwen for her chocoholic ways again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This basically exists as a leaping pad (lol) for me to ease myself into writing Spider-Man and any other Marvel characters. All about autism/menstrual cycles/sensory issues/stimming basically comes from personal experience, though I do mix it up with Peter to fit his situation.
> 
> In any case - fuck tampons. Who the hell can use a tampon. Not me. Not Peter. What a nightmare.
> 
> P.s. Peter isn't actually lactose intolerant, he's just being a little shit.


End file.
